Why this?

The occasional poem of my own and a generous helping of work by others that I find inspiring. Site is named for a beloved book by one of my favorite writers, Italo Calvino, whose fanciful work lights--and delights--my soul.

There is magic in decay.A dance to be doneFor the rotting, the maggot strewnPiles of flesh which pileUpon the dung-ridden earthAnd the damp that gathersAnd rusts and defiles.There is a bit of thisIn even the most zoetic soul — The dancing child’s armsFlailing to an old ska songConduct the day-old fliesAway to whatever rankNative is closest. Just todayI was walking along the riverWith my daughter in my backpackAnd I opened my emailOn my phone and DuffieHad sent me a poemCalled “Compost.” I read itTo my little girl and startedTo explain before I was threeWords in Selma startedYelling, Daddy, Daddy, snake!In the path was a snake,Belly up and still nerve-twitchingThe ghost of some passingBicycle or horse. Pretty, Selma said.Yes, I said. And underneath my yesAnother yes, the yes to my body,Just beginning to show signsOf slack, and another, my graspingIn the dark for affirming fleshThat in turn says yes, yesLet’s rot together but not untilWe’ve drained what sapIs left in these trees.And I wake in the morningAnd think of the coronerCalling to ask what colorMy father’s eyes were,And I asked, Why? Why can’tYou just look — and the coroner,Matter-of-factly says, Decay.Do you want some eggs, my love?I have a new way of preparing them.And look, look outside, I think this weatherHas the chance of holding.--Dan Chelotti

Thursday, June 19, 2014

Earth holds no sweeter secret anywhereThan this my brook, that lisps along the greenOf mossy channels, where slim birch trees leanLike tall pale ladies, whose delicious hair,Lures and invites the kiss of wanton air.The smooth soft grasses, delicate betweenThe rougher stalks, by waifs alone are seen,Shy things that live in sweet seclusion there.And is it still the same, and do the eyesOf every silver ripple meet the treesThat bend above like guarding emerald skies?I turn, who read the city’s beggared book,And hear across the moan of many seasThe whisper and the laughter of my brook.--Helen Hay Whitney

Sunday mornings I would reachhigh into his dark closet while standing on a chair and tiptoeing reachhigher, touching, sometimes fumbling the soft crowns and imagineI was in a forest, wind hymning through pines, where the musky scentof rain clinging to damp earth was his scent I loved, lingering onbands, leather, and on the inner silk crowns where I would smell hishair and almost think I was being held, or climbing a tree, touchingthe yellow fruit, leaves whose scent was that of a clove in the godsomeair, as now, thinking of his fabulous sleep, I stand on this canyon floorand watch light slowly close on water I’m not sure is there.--Mark Irwin

When my son was a few weeks old,replicas of his yawning face appearedsuddenly on drowsy passersby:middle-aged man’s gape that split his beard,old woman on a bus, a little girl—all told a story that I recognized.Now he is fifteen.As my students shuffle in the doorof the classroom, any of the boyscould easily be him—foot-dragging, also swaggering a little,braving the perils of a public spaceby moving in a wary little troop.But the same sleepy eyes, the same soft face.We recognize the people whom we love,or love what we respond to as our own,trusting that one day someonewill look at us with recognition.--Rachel Hadas